Postscript

When in 1940, in the early evening after a day in the
Public Library at Forty-second Street in New York Emanuel and I walked
to Central Park and sat down on a bench, I said to him life was not always
easy with him, but it was certainly an adventure. This sums up in some
way my life with Emanuel. In this autobiography of his this feeling of
adventure comes through. Almost every day, especially since we came to
the United States, unusual things happened.

He was always on a hunt for more knowledge, following
roads into different directions to look for and find more clues to his
intuitive thoughts and expectations. He was like a hunter on a trailthough
he would never have hunted an animal or gone fishing, he respected life
too much for such sportsbut as a man of a vision, who looked into
many directions, he was driven by a never ending urge to know more.

He was humble and proud at the same time, and before
all he was a great fighter who never took no for an answer; who went to
the authorities of the past as well as to the great living to ask for
explanations. He was never discouraged. When one of his expectations was
not fulfilled, he went into the next direction to find the answers he
looked for. He abandoned one way and went to the next without losing confidence
in his search for what he hoped to be the solution and the truth. All
in all, Emanuel was a man of a very unusual character. As I said, pround
and humble, courageous, never to give up even when the odds against him
and the personal attacks on him would have overwhelmed many a man. Of
course, the strain showed through his life. There were times when he felt
depressed as in reaction to the difficulties found in his way. And no
wonder, I lived with him through very trying times and I understood when
the load became too heavy.

He was a very gentle human being, he cared for his parents,
family, friends, and for the plain and simple. He lent a hand to people,
he found time to comfort and advise and help, never being too busy to
listen to the unfortunate, adults and children alike. He was a great optimist
who believed in the goodness of man and in the purpose of life, and he
also had a fine sense of humor. He was a great raconteur and would tell
anecdotes and stories. I would ask him to cheer me up when I felt let
down, and he would say, let us count our blessings. And we would count.
And that helped every time to make us feel positive and happy again. He
gave this advice also to his friends, who still remember him for that.
It was always the cup is half full and not half empty. He
called me Shevik, and when he was in a sentimental mood I was Shevinka;
but when he called me Elisheva, I knew that something was wrong, that
he did not approve of me at that moment. I, however, never had a nickname
for himhe always was Emanuel for me, also Aba. Some of his family
called him Monia, but to me it sounded too much like money,
and this asociation did not fit him at all. He could have gotten rich
many times, but it was not written in his stars, and certainly not in
mine. And when he was sometimes sorry that he did not take advantage of
an opportunity to buy land and enrich himself and his family, I would
say, never mind, you bought the sky. And he would smile.

He wrote about his first 6½ years in several but similar
versions and in several languages: Russian, German, Hebrew and English.
He made lists how to divide his life into different epochs, but wrote
only sporadically, and some parts are missing. There were also letters,
correspondence with his father, with friends and scholars, which are biographical.
There were no letters between us, because we were almost never separated.
All the trips to Europe and Palestine we made together, and I went with
him across the United States to campuses to be with him when he lectured.

A few sentences of friends after his death:

S. Vaughan wrote me a poetic line: So Velikovsky
has left this fragile ship, but he is sailing the seas of space.
Walter Kaufmann quoted Fulton Oursler, Do not mourn that he has
died, be glad that he has lived.

And a recent note to me from a reader I dont know:
May I . . . tell you how admiring I am of your matchless memorial
to this great manthe publication of his unique works. And
that is what I have been doing these past two years, and that is what
sustains me.

There is a saying which dates back to older timesHerodotus
records it of Solon speaking of Croesus, the richest man, whether he was
lucky. Only after his death do you know whether a person was lucky.

In this sense Emanuel was a lucky man. On a Sabbath
morning, lying quietly on his bed after a rather restless night, speaking
softly to meI was sitting next to him, on the edge of his bed, and
touching his shoulder asked him to repeat his last words I did not hear
clearly; he turned his head a bit to the side, he did not answerhe
had diedwithout a gasp, without a murmur. He was a lucky man in
many ways because of his strong character, his honesty with himself, his
total devotion and integrity, a man of vision, of commitment with belief
in his work.